


Superheroes

by reedswrote



Series: Superheroes [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Childhood, First Kiss, First Love, Friendship/Love, High School, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1805155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reedswrote/pseuds/reedswrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>X-Men First Class fic: COMPLETELY AU. Erik and Charles meet cute. Very cute. Like, five year olds in pre-school cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pre-K

**Author's Note:**

> From Pre-K to college, Erik and Charles are always connected, one way or another.

**A/N** : _Alright, so! This is completely AU. I've been searching the fandom for something like this but I have yet to find it so I decided to take a crack at it. Charles and Erik still have their powers, but there is no Holocaust and no dead mother for Erik. This takes place today - in the time of colored televisions, and Superman, and Arthur on PBS. Charles and Erik don't meet while Erik is dying trying to kill Shaw, but rather in pre-school. I sincerely hope you all enjoy.)_

**o o o**

Erik Lensherr is a 'solemn child.'

At five years old, he doesn't know what that means. It's just something his mama says quietly into the cradle of his little neck when she scoops him up and carries him around as she does her housework. "You are just as I was," she says as she stirs the soup, matza thick and doughy, floating fat to the surface. Her voice soothes him - more than any toy or television show with men in brightly colored suits jumping around ever could. He lays heavy and limp in her arms, head against her shoulder, thumb in his mouth. Every breath he takes fills his tiny lungs with the scent of her perfume, light and powdery. It mingles with the scent of the rich soup and the fresh bread that she allowed him to slap into shape before he watched her place it in the oven earlier. "You are a 'watcher.' You study the intentions of others." Erik doesn't know what 'intentions' means either, but it doesn't matter, because his mama's voice is seeping into his tired body, and pretty soon he is drifting off, the warmth of the kitchen and his mama's soft body latching onto his bones.

A large hand on his tummy, shaking him gently, wakes him up soon, though. He is still above the ground, in someone's arms, but it is not his mama. He shifts, and his fingers wrap around the little metal buttons he knows are part of his father's uniform. His bare foot knocks against the empty gun holster, and his father hooks a hand behind his knee. "It's time to wake up." Erik buries his face into the hot, spicy smelling skin of his papa's neck. The resulting chuckle rumbles through his whole body. A big hand rubs his back, gently. "Just some soup," he says. "A little bowl, a ball of matza. You love matza. And then back to bed. You start pre-school in the morning."

Erik's stomach wriggles unpleasantly and his father's buttons shake in their holes. Erik is not excited about pre-school. At all. When his father explained what it was it sounded awful – a strange place, with strange people that he's never ever met before. And the worst part is that he can't even use his superhero powers there. Because Erik does have superpowers, just like Superman, or Spiderman, or Green Lantern. And not the fake ones that the other kids in the neighborhood pretend to have, tying bed sheets around their necks and zooming around with their hands held in front of them, shouting and screaming and pretending to move things out the way. Erik _can_ really move things out of the way. Some things. Little things. Metal things. That's why his papa has to take his gun off as soon as he gets into the house and hide it.

Mama and papa tell him it is because the other kids will not understand – they might be afraid of him if he begins to move things around without touching them. "But they might think its _cool_ ," Erik had answered, imploringly. "They might think _I'm_ a superhero, and want to be my best friend because I can protect them from, from… from the bad guys! With guns! Who don't use them for good deeds like papa does."

They had exchanged a look then, the one Erik doesn't like because it always means they are sharing a secret he doesn't know about.

"They might," his papa says slowly. "Or, they might… not."

"Let's try it for the first week," his mama says, smiling at him kindly, eyes warm. "You won't use your superpowers at school for one whole week, and if you feel okay about it then you can stay, and play all the games, and make new friends, and sing songs. How does that sound, _boychick_?" It's the sound of his mother's favorite endearment for him that had Erik nodding.

"I don't want to go to pre-school," he says now, pulling back so he can look up into his father's face. "I want to stay home with mama."

His father sighs. "We talked about this, Erik. Try it for one week."

Erik says nothing, and during dinner he makes all of the spoons except for his own, float up up up towards the ceiling.

**o o o**

The other children here are too loud, Erik decides. He'd watched from his father's arms that morning as they all ran around, picking up toys and dropping them down in front of other kids to play. He knows some of them, the ones that live in the neighborhood, but none of them talk to him. He sits in the corner, by himself, and his chest hurts. He wants to go home, wants to go back home to his mama who always plays with him when she's not busy and who let him wear his favorite blue shirt today because she said it would bring him good luck. His little hands ball in the fabric, tugging at the hem. All the kids play with each other, but none invite him over. He watches as a pregnant woman drops her child off. The little boy presses his ear to his mother's stomach as she chats with the teacher, fingers absently running through her son's hair. The boy stays still for a few moments before turning to whisper something to the baby inside and kissing the protruding outline of the bellybutton pressing against the pretty sundress. Erik looks away and back towards the kids playing merrily without him. His stomach gives another twisty jerk, and he can feel his bottom lip trembling, and his eyes are getting blurry with unshed tears-

_Don't be upset._

The voice isn't his own, but is _right_ in his head. He begins to look around but before he can a little boy with tremendous blue eyes plops down in front of him. It's the boy who was listening to his mother's stomach. He's got on tan pants and soft looking brown shoes. There is what looks like a sweater with no arms over a white button down shirt. He looks too fancy for pre-school, Erik thinks. Even his voice, when he speaks, sounds too fancy for pre-school where everyone is wearing jeans, and sneakers, and is screaming like that Banshee on that episode of Arthur that make Erik grip onto the couch pillows. "Hello, my name is Charles Xavier, and it is a pleasure to meet you." Charles holds a hand out, but Erik doesn't take it. The voice that comes out of this boy's mouth is the same that was just in his head.

"How did you do that?" he demands. Somewhere in his mind he thinks his mama would be upset with him for being so rude.

"Do what?" Charles asks, dark hair flopping into his eyes. His hand is still out.

"I heard you, in my head. How did you do it?"

Charles lets his arm drop and he stares at him for a long moment. Erik feels uncomfortable. He feels as if this other boy is looking straight into his mind, and it's like he can _feel_ something pressing against his brain. He scowls. His mama and papa told him never to hit another person, but he wants to hit Charles, even if his eyes are the same color of Erik's good luck shirt. Charles is looking at him strangely just like his parents said the other kids would, and it's making his tummy tie up in knots.

 _I'm like you,_ Charles says finally. But he doesn't really _say_ it. His voice echoes in Erik's head again.

"What do you mean you're like me?" He demands, and he can feel his hands balling into fists.

 _Please don't hit me,_ the voice says. _I don't want you to be upset - we're both superheroes._

Erik opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. _What do you mean?_

_This is my super power. I can talk to people like this. And I can see what they think. You can move things._

_How do you know that?_ Erik is still suspicious, but he isn't angry anymore. He doesn't know why, but he trusts this boy with his weird clothes and bright eyes. Plus, he's nice. The only one who has spoken to him. And they both have superpowers. Charles won't be afraid or be mean to Erik like the others will.

 _I can see it,_ Charles says, and he is smiling now, and it is strange because Erik can _feel_ the smile in his head. It's warm, and bright, and makes him happy too. _I can see you- you made the spoons float away last night!_ The boy giggles and Erik does too, shifting closer so that their faces are closer together, heads bowed.

 _My mama said I can't use my powers,_ Erik thinks, a little angrily. _She and papa said that the other kids would get scared and be mean to me._

 _I won't. I won't get scared or upset or anything._ And Erik can feel the promise just like he could feel the smile. _We're best friends. Like Batman and Robin!_ They giggle again and joy pours through Erik's body. It's not like the same joy he gets when he's with his mother – it's close though. Charles isn't part of Erik's family- he isn't Erik's mother or father so he doesn't _have_ to like him. But he _does._ He chose _Erik_ to be his best friend.

 _Who's gonna be Batman and who's gonna be Robin?_ Erik asks, grinning, laying his hand out, palm facing upwards, on the colorful carpet.

 _You can be Batman,_ Charles says and puts his smaller hand in Erik's. _You're bigger._


	2. Fourth Grade

Erik scowls down at the scratched and worn wood of the table in front of him. He traces the words and random symbols scratched into the surface. The pads of his fingertips drifting over _Kacee was here,_ and _r+t 4ever,_ and _sixth grade SUX._ The sun beats down on the back of his bowed neck and the light breeze blows the sound of his classmate's screams and laughter his way.

He is in time out.

Again.

Not that he's _really_ upset about what he's done. When Erik is upset about something he's done wrong, it's usually because if he could go back he wouldn't do the same thing again. Like that time he hid his mama's car keys so that he wouldn't have to go to the dentist. They'd lost the appointment and the fifty dollars charged for doing so, and his mother was almost livid when he sheepishly floated they key chain down from where it lay inside the hanging lamp. This time he isn't sorry at all. He would have done what he'd done this time again, and again, and again if he got the chance to.

A penny at the edge of the table catches his eye and he doesn't even check as he lazily drags it over without lifting a finger.

_You shouldn't do that,_ comes the familiar voice in his head, almost as constant as his own. He stands the penny up on its side and makes it spin slowly. _You shouldn't have pushed him, either_. There is a tug at his swinging feet and he pauses in his penny spinning to look down. Two large blue eyes stare up at him from under the table.

_He deserved it,_ Erik thinks back, annoyed _._

And its true - Azazel is always picking on the younger kids. Even kids his own age, in his own grade. He thinks all because he's the biggest sixth grader in the whole school gives him the right to be a bully. And the teachers never catch on; he disappears so quickly after shoving or hitting a kid, or when he steals the treats from lunchboxes.

_I was okay._ He feels Charles shift at his feet and lay his head on his knee. His own hand automatically plays with the ends of the dark hair brushing against his bare skin even as he resumes his task of making the metal move, lengthen, and twist a few inches off of the table.

Erik says nothing to this, but lingers on the feeling of shoving stupid Azazel on his butt.

Charles and Erik had been playing marbles – some old game Charles' parents had taught both of them last week. One marble had gone zooming way out into the grass beyond the dirt circle and Erik darted up to go retrieve it. His small hand had been closing around the silver orb when Charles' sharp cry reached his ears, followed by a familiar, taunting laugh.

A quick look over his shoulder showed Azazel was indeed the one laughing, teasing a pink faced Charles. As he got closer, Erik could see that Charles' neatly pressed khakis were now smudged with dirt and his hair hung into his face, but it was the sight of his watery eyes and trembling lip as he looked at his scraped, red palms that had Erik's own hands darting out to shove Azazel hard in the chest.

Erik's heart beat quickly in his chest; all because Charles was smaller than the rest of the fourth graders, and dressed properly, and shared everything, even his favorite red grapes, and had a pretty voice did _not_ mean he was a target for Azazel. Especially if Erik was around to protect him.

He had been pulling his foot back for a well-aimed kick when Mrs. Lindsey blew her whistle and hauled him away.

And now he was sitting at this stupid bench while stupid Azazel was pretending he was hurt, and having dumb Mrs. Lindsey fuss over him.

_Mrs. Lindsey isn't dumb,_ Charles' voice says, reprimanding in that gentle way he has.

_She is,_ Erik thinks, mulishly. He lets what used to be a penny drop with a dull clang against the table. _Show me your hands._

He hears Charles' sigh as he pulls back from resting his head on Erik's leg and holds his hands up. Anger eats at Erik's belly again – the usually soft, pale palms are red, scratched, and puffy. He is going to kick Azazel in the _face_ after school –

_Don't do that, you'll get in trouble._

_You can just make anyone who sees forget._

He hears a huff of a laugh from under the table. _You know I can't do that anymore. Mum said I can't._

_I won't tell._

_I can't. I can't make everyone forget._ Charles shifts uncomfortably. _It's hard enough making_ one _person forget something._

_Whatever,_ Erik grumbles, but gently pets the skin around the tender parts of Charles' palm. He wants to kiss it better like his Mama used to do for him (and still does, but no one knows that except for Charles) but the angle is off and he can't duck his head that far under the table. Mrs. Lindsey will see and then Charles will get in trouble too.

_That's okay, what you're doing,_ Charles tells him. _It feels nice,_ and Erik can tell it's the truth by the content feeling rolling around in his veins. He knows it isn't his own - he still wants to hurt Azazel.

But right now Charles is happy so Erik guesses he can be okay. Charles shifts again so that he can keep his hand in Erik's and rest his head back on the bony knee, and Erik stares out into the trees beyond the fence.

He's calming down now, and he likes the way Charles lays heavy against him. It reminds him of when they tangle together in front of the television during their Friday night sleepovers. He hopes his parents will let them have it this weekend - he's sure Mrs. Lindsey will tattle...

_Thank you._ The words are quiet, but they make Erik's chest glow and feel warm anyway.

Yeah, he thinks, he's okay.


	3. Ninth Grade

Charles hates being sick.

He hates the way his head pounds and how his nose feels as if someone stuck silly putty up both nostrils. He hates the way his throat gets so sore and how his whole body aches. And he absolutely despises how he's always so exhausted and, even though all he wants to do is sleep, can never find that comfortable spot in bed or on the couch.

He lays in his bedroom now, heavy curtains drawn even though it's dark outside, the winter sun having faded quickly. He huddles under the blankets feeling small, and achy, and grumpy, willing himself to fall asleep. It's the best he can do - try and rest constantly, hopefully waking up to slightly clearer airways.

He tosses and turns, hears his school appointed copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ hit the floor with a thud. Using a flat palm, he brushes the hairs that stick to his forehead back and behind his ears, and huffs out an irritated, uncomfortable breath. He's hot, way too hot, but the moment he throws the blankets off of his body, he's too cold. Reaching out blindly he feels around for a tissue, but when his hands meet with nothing but his glasses and an empty cough drop bag, frustration bubbles up.

He _hates_ being sick.

Eventually, he finds a comfortable position (half way on his side, one leg out from under the blankets) and begins to drift off, fever induced images floating through his muddled mind, when the door to his bedroom flies open and a small blur of blonde hair hurtles in. She only slows down to carefully climb up onto the bed, and soon his little sister is crawling towards him on all fours to peer down into his face, all blurred freckles and big brown eyes that blink quickly.

"Are you feeling better?"

Charles shuffles, irritation prickling at his skin as he turns to lie on his back. Gently placing a hand on her shoulder, he pushes her away. "No." he says thickly. He winces at how stuffed up and hoarse he sounds. "You shouldn't put your face so close to mine - you could get sick too."

Raven shrugs and sits back heavily, red satin dress fluffing up around her. Charles can't help but smile at the picture she makes; red dress with a black sash in the middle, long blonde hair in ringlets held back by a black headband, legs covered in white stockings and shiny black shoes on her feet. "All ready to be Father's date for the party, then?"

Raven nods, excited, even as Charles' own throat tightens. It should be Mother accompanying his Father to his colleague's Holiday celebration, Raven small and swinging between their hands. But she's in another one of her moods – the one where she says she's going out for that expensive cheese she "simply _cannot_ live without" and ends up sending a postcard a month later informing them that she is in Bali, or Dubai, or someplace equally as exotic and far away. He shakes away his slightly bitter thoughts and focuses on his sister chatting away merrily. "And Daddy said that Santa might be there, so I'm gonna ask him for that huge dollhouse I saw at the toy store we went to when we went to the city. You know the one with the big piano you can jump on?" Charles nods – he's sure Raven will get the dollhouse. Not from Santa, but from their father who will literally bend over backwards to spoil her. Not that Charles begrudges him the fact – Raven, still small for her age with a face as round and sweet as her mostly intact childish enthusiasm and mentality, is hard to turn down at the best of times.

"I'm sure Santa will see to it," Charles says.

Raven nods and smoothes out her skirt as she looks around the room. "Where's Erik?"

Charles' slightly good mood flees. He sinks back into the pillows, turning on his side and pulling up the covers. "Not here."

Raven rolls her eyes. "Duh. Why not? It's Friday. Erik _always_ comes over on Fridays. Did you two get into a fight?"

Charles sighs and closes his eyes, the exhaustion from earlier kicking back in. "No, we didn't."

"Then where is he?"

"The Winter Ball, I would suspect." He's tries to ignore the way his stomach coils uncomfortably – he was supposed to be at the Ball as well. He'd put so much work into the whole thing, joining the dance committee despite Erik's incredulous laughter. He'd managed to find a date in quiet Moria from History class and had picked out his best dress shirt and pants. He'd been excited, ready to go, and dance, and have everyone admire how great the gymnasium looked. That is until three days ago, when he'd felt that horrible tickle in the back of his throat.

"You should come anyway," Erik had told him on the phone last night. "Stuff your pockets full of tissues and we can sit at a table all night if you're too tired." The small smile that curls his lips against the pillow flees quickly when he imagines Erik with Angel, dancing and having a good time without him. He doesn't mind, really. He _wants_ Erik to have a great time – he just wishes he were there to see it.

He searches his mind for a new topic, one to rid his mind of the image of Erik and Angel slow dancing while silver tinsel glitters all around them. "Remember to keep 'you-know-what" under control." He hears Raven sigh heavily and he opens one eye just in time to see her golden honey hair shift to glossy black and then back to blonde.

"I know, I know," she grumbles. "Daddy already told me. It's not fair though. What I can do is super cool."

"Regardless," Charles tells her, eye winking closed again.

"Erik is right," she says, sounding as wistful as an eight year old can. "We _are_ better. Regular people should be begging to see our talents."

"You need to stop parroting Erik." He hears Raven take a breath to begin again, but he cuts her off. "We aren't _better_ than any other man. We're all human." And he really is too weak to be discussing this right now. He hears Raven mumble something under her breath. "Excuse me?"

"Said we're not human."

"And what are we? Or," he pinches the bridge of his nose, "what did Erik tell you we are?"

"Mutants."

"Lord." He's heard Erik say the same thing, refer to them in the same way, but he had no idea he'd been telling Raven his theories. Charles doesn't know how he feels about it.

"It's true. We are," she says matter-of-factly. She smoothes her skirt again. "We're better."

Charles hums, too tired to argue. And luckily he doesn't have to, as moments later his father's voice comes floating up the stairs.

"Raven, darling. Time to go." Charles feels the bed shake and dip as his little sister jumps off, talk of mutants instantly forgotten.

"Bye, Charles!" she calls as she hurries out into the hallway. "Love you!"

"Love you too," he mumbles, the words most likely unheard over the sound of his bedroom door slamming shut. A few minutes pass quietly, the distant sounds of Raven chattering and coats rustling lulling Charles into an odd sense of contentment. His eyelids begin to feel heavy. _Now_ , he'll be able to sleep…

_Can I come in?_ Erik's voice nudges softly at Charles' mind.

Charles' eyes blink open, and he answers _of course_ muzzily, automatically, despite his confusion _._ The door knob turns and the door opens wide to reveal Erik. Charles feels a shot of envy at how much taller Erik has gotten in the past few months. He's already reached 5'11 while Charles is still a measly 5'4.

His friend's hands are full with shopping bags and his familiar overnight duffle is thrown over his shoulder. He's wearing those black slacks and green button down shirt they'd picked out of the store last week, along with his shiny new shoes. _I thought you were at the dance,_ Charles thinks and Erik shrugs as he drops a stack of DVD's messily onto the end of the bed.

_I was,_ is all he says in reply. _Your dad said he won't be out too late, seeing as he's with Raven and all._ He shrugs off his duffle bag so it falls into the floor with a soft _wump_.

_What happened?_ Charles sits up, back against the pillows and folds his hands on his lap.

_It was lame,_ he says, easily. _The music was awful and Angel kept trying to get me to dance with her. You know I don't dance._

_You dance,_ Charles thinks, smiling slightly. He pulls up the memory of them together out on the patio of the country club. He remembers how fresh the newly cut grass smelled, and the way the music drifted out of the ajar glass doors, floating on the evening air mixing with Erik's grumbles of "never need to know the waltz anyway" and "why in the world would anyone _want_ to box step?" Still grinning, he projects the image into Erik's mind and watches a mild pink flush seep into his cheeks.

_That didn't count,_ Erik thinks roughly as he sits on the edge of the bed. _You got it into that fancy little brain of yours that you wanted to teach me. It was easier to just let you get it out of your system._ Charles grins and watches Erik pull up two full grocery bags onto the bed. Out of one bag he pulls a jumbo bag of gummi worms, a bag of Jolly Ranchers, a bottle of ginger ale, and a jumbo bag of Twizzlers. _I tried to get mostly soft stuff,_ he explains, arranging everything to rest against the wall. _I saw those Dill Pickle chips you like so much, but I figured your throat and all.._.

Charles just nods. His head still feels heavy, and his limbs lethargic, but his chest begins to warm in a pleasant way, heart squeezing. He watches as Erik unpacks the second bag – Nyquil, another bottle of ginger ale, a massive bag of cough drops, and two boxes of extra soft tissues. _I left the ice pack in the fridge downstairs. I know how hot I get when I'm sick…_ He trails off as he looks up at Charles, and Charles guesses that his happy surprise shows completely on his face, because Erik's flush returns, darker than before.

Joy fills Charles' body, warm and light and _this_ is why Erik is his best friend. Most of their classmates think him unfriendly – sullen, and quiet, angry at the world. Charles was actually surprised when Angel walked up to Erik's table during lunch and asked him to the ball. Not because Erik is bad looking, (because he definitely is not,) but most of the people at school are intimidated of him.

But that's because they don't see him like _this._ They don't see how he's skipped one of the biggest dances of the year to come watch movies with Charles, who is most likely highly contagious. They don't get to watch how he arranges everything from the second bag neatly on Charles' bedside table. They don't know how… how…

Charles can't find words as he looks at Erik, who's toeing off his new shoes. _Pick a movie,_ he says as he unbuttons his shirt and unzips his duffle to fish out another. Small smile still firmly in place, Charles takes a stuffy sniff and leans forward to grab at three movies randomly. _Sin City, Die Hard,_ and _Horton Hears a Who._ His chest gives another pleasant squeeze at the last one. It's his favorite.

_This one,_ he says and turns to Erik who is now barefoot and clad in a dark green long sleeve cotton shirt and black and grey checkered pajama pants. His green eyes flick to the movie held in Charles' hand and he grins.

_Figures._ He takes the case from him, and crosses the room to slide the disk into the DVD player and grab the remotes. Kicking empty grocery bags and his duffle out of the way he lifts the covers and slides into bed. _Shove over._

_You're going to get sick,_ Charles warns, but moves closer over to the wall anyway. He feels Erik shrug.

_I'll be fine._

Soon the sounds of Horton the Elephant fills up the bedroom, but Charles isn't paying attention. He watches Erik watch the movie - takes in how the light from the television washes over his features, throwing them into sharp relief. He watches long dark lashes brush against high cheekbones every time Erik blinks and the way his long throat pulses every time he swallows.

Charles' stomach twists again, but unlike earlier this sensation makes Charles feel warm, almost giddy.

_What are you looking at?_ Erik asks, without turning his eyes away from the screen.

_Nothing._ And Charles is glad that it's so dark – he has a sneaking suspicion that his face has gone pink.

He fixes his eyes on the television screen and burrows under the covers, which oddly enough, are exactly the right temperature. He feels Erik shift closer, getting comfortable, and a long arm wraps around Charles' shoulder, lazily pulling him in. It should be odd, being this close to another male, especially at their age. But they've been doing this since they were five, huddled up on the couch watching Sesame Street in the morning still in their pajamas.

He allows himself to melt easily against Erik's side, not an ounce self conscious as he snuffles, somewhat miserably, against his chest. Closing his eyes, he revels in the sound of the movie and the feel of Erik's thumb absently sliding both smooth and rough over his collarbone.

Finally he sleeps.


	4. Eleventh Grade

"You should give it up," Angel says bluntly, lunch tray landing loudly on the table. Hank jumps at the sound, cheeks flushing red hot and guilty as he tears his gaze away from the table a few feet away. "It's not gonna happen," she continues, sliding into the seat across from him.

Hank doesn't meet her eyes, choosing instead to twirl his plastic fork around in his spaghetti. "It might. I mean. Maybe…"

Angel looks over her shoulder to the table that has held Hank's attention nearly everyday for almost two years. He doesn't need to look over as well to know what she sees; Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr sitting together, eating silently, and literally gazing into each other's eyes. Well, that's not fair – they don't _gaze_ as much as… _communicate_ with their facial features. It sounds awkward and odd, but Hank can't find another way to put it. He doesn't think he's ever seen Erik and Charles actually speak to each other. That's a lie – he's seen them speak to each other a few times, but even then it's in low, private murmurs no one else can hear.

He darts another look from under his fringe – Erik is leaning into Charles, as if listening to something the smaller boy is saying. Charles' mouth doesn't move, but after a moment Erik smirks anyway and brushes their shoulders together. And the look Charles gives him-

Hank looks away.

"They are attached at the _hip_ ," Angel says, turning back to Hank.

"They're best friends," he mutters, cutting his pasta into tiny, mushy pieces. "You and Moria are always together."

"That's different," Angel says, flippantly, tearing open a bag of chips. "I'm obviously not in love with Moria." Hank opens his mouth to speak, but Angel continues, one pierced eyebrow raised. "And don't even say that they aren't in love. Or at least doing each other. Dude, three years ago," and Hank rolls his eyes because he's heard this story a thousand and one times. He privately thinks Angel should be over it by now. "Winter Ball," she continues, oblivious. "I asked Erik, remember? He's there for maybe two hours tops, won't even dance with me, and acting as if he doesn't know what the hell to do with himself. I go the bathroom, and when I come back he finally walks up to me and says, "It was great, I'm glad you asked me. I really am. But Charles is sick, and I promised him I'd stop by later, so..." and then he's just gone."

"Not that you minded it much. It's the whole reason why you and Azazel are dating." Now it's Angel's turn to roll her eyes, but Hank ignores her. "Besides, that doesn't prove anything-" Hank starts to say, but he's jostled by another person sitting down next to him. Moria's long, brown, sweet smelling hair sweeps across his face as she flips it over her shoulder. "What are we talking about?"

Alex, and Sean sit on either side of Angel, and Hank wants to stop this conversation now. Too many people around to tell him this is an awful idea and, by extension, hopeless endeavor. Not that it really makes a difference – he's sure his massive crush on Charles Xavier isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"Hank is, once again, contemplating asking Charles Xavier out on a date," Angel announces, crunching into a potato chip.

Alex snorts. "Good luck, bro."

"Thanks for your vote of confidence," Hank replies, mulishly.

"Shut up," Alex says, opening his bottle of Coke and guzzling it down. He burps and Hank wrinkles his nose. "You know what I mean. It has nothing to do with you – you're a freakin genius and Xavier is too, so you got that goin for you. And you're pretty hot for a nerd." Hank feels his cheeks flare up again, ears burning, and Angel gives an inelegant huff of laughter. "But fuck all that's gonna do for you if you can't get past Lensherr."

"You won't get past Erik," Sean chips in, not looking away from his hamburger.

"You really won't." Angel says.

Hank feels his heart sink. It's the normal response to this line of conversation. The result is always the same – 'Don't even try. It will just end in eternal sadness.' It shouldn't matter. It really shouldn't – it's just a crush. A crush he's had for two years and has done nothing about. He just- It's his _last_ year, and he's graduating soon, and he just wants the one date at least… to see where it goes…

"I think you should try," Moria says quietly, and Hank shoots her a small, grateful smile.

"Do we even know if he's gay?" Sean asks. The table goes quiet.

"He does wear those little sweater vests," Alex says after a moment, and Moria rolls her eyes.

"That's like saying we know you're bi because of your sneakers."

"That makes exactly no sense," Alex says.

"Exactly my point."

Hank smiles a little as Alex goes on to brag about his date this weekend with that blonde guy on the football team with the tattoos. He lets his gaze stray back over to the table a few feet away. Charles' big blue eyes shine, crinkled at the sides, a result of the wide smile that shows off his white teeth. Erik murmurs something, a sly smirk on his face as well. But Hank focuses on Charles and feels his heart try to flutter back up into his rib cage, feeble wings beating hard.

He's going to do it – he's going to ask Charles Xavier on a date.

He's got to try.

**o o o**

"Hello, Hank." Charles smiles kindly up at him, big blue eyes immediately pulling him in, and Hank's mouth goes dry. Why is he doing this? Alex, and Sean, and Angel were right. Charles is going to say no, and Erik is going to corner him in a deserted hallway, smiling sharply has he interrogates Hank. He looks around quickly, despite knowing that Lensherr has P.E right now and as a result is all the way at the other end of the school.

Realizing he's been silent for far too long, Hank jumps into speech. "Hey, Charles. Howzitgoing?" He tries to smile, but it feels more like a grimace, and he should just walk away now.

Charles stares up at him, directly into his eyes, and the seconds crawl by. He stares, unblinking, and Hank feels as if he's trying to read his mind. God, that's the last thing he needs, Charles Xavier seeing all the things Hank wants to do to him…

Finally, after what seems like years, Charles gives him a soft smile, and looks away, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. He looks at the floor, Hank's shoulder, and then back up into his face. "I'm good, fine. And you?"

"Good… good." Another break of silence and Hank feels like sinking into the floor, because, really, how awkward can he be right now? Charles' smile gets even more kind and he shifts on his feet, closer into Hank's personal space. The creamy skin of his cheeks has a slight pink flush to them and it's so endearing Hank feels his heart give an affectionate lurch.

"So!" he begins, too loudly. He coughs, and tries again. "I mean, so, would you like to- I don't know – There's this, this new exhibition on the pier. Well it's not _new_ exactly, but it was gone for a few years and now it's back. It's an in depth look into the human body. It's actually called Bodies, and there are bones, and tissue and… everything… just laid out…"

It doesn't exactly sound romantic, but he knows Charles will like it. Charles is in his advanced biochemistry class, and he's still a grade under Hank. It's the perfect thing for them to go to.

Isn't it?

"That would be great," Charles says.

Hank blinks.

"Really?"

Charles smiles up at him and shifts his books into his other hand. "Yes, it sounds fascinating. I've heard about that exhibit and have always wanted to go see it. It's perfect really."

"Yeah," and Hank is grinning now too, relieved. His friends are not going to believe him when he tells them. "And afterwards we can, I don't know, get some ice cream and see the street performers. Sit on the beach."

The smaller boy's grin gets wider, and he nods. "Sounds wonderful."

Hank feels giddy. "It's a date."

Charles laughs. "It's a date."

And just like that, Hank has a date with Charles Xavier.

**o o o**

_Why are you so quiet?_ Erik asks him an hour into their studying. It's after school and they're in Charles' room. The fresh spring air blows softly into the space, carrying the noise of children playing, and Charles hesitates. Not that he's sure why. He _wants_ to tell Erik that he has a date, but for some reason he feels oddly about it, his heart pumping a little too fast at the idea. He watches as Erik absent mindedly bends and twists one of the thick metal knitting needles he carries around just for this purpose. His eyes track the way Erik's long fingers move, smooth and strong through the air, and feels an all too familiar shiver run down his spine. It's moments like these that he's glad Erik isn't the one who can read minds.

He recalls how nervous Hank was earlier today. How his clear skin flushed red and his eyes shone bright blue behind thick black frames and under windswept hair. It made a very attractive picture. Charles blushes as he also remembers what he'd seen flash briefly through Hank's mind before remembering the boundaries he's set up for himself – plush red lips against his own. Big, smooth hands, usually found wrapped around ball point pens and glass beakers, cradling Charles' face... brief images of skin against skin and words breathed heavily into the curve of damp throats.

Charles clears his throat and ignores his burning face.

_I have a date._

Erik pauses for a moment, hands ceasing its fluid movements for a split second before continuing. He keeps his eyes fixed on his papers. _Oh? With Moria?_

Charles shifts in his seat on the bed, opens his mouth, closes it, and fixes his own gaze on the textbook open on his lap. _Uh, no. No, it's with… Hank._

Everything seems to go still and Charles keeps his own eyes fixed on his book. Neither of them move, the metal knitting needle bent into a pretzel floats midair, and Charles really, _really,_ wants to delve into his friend's mind. It's a real force of will, but he holds back and damns his boundaries.

_Hank McCoy?_ The tone of Erik's thought give nothing away, but Charles already knew it wouldn't. Erik is so used to keeping only what he wants to be heard on the surface – Charles has been in his head most of his life and as a result, he's got the best defenses Charles has ever felt in a mind before.

_Yeah._ They fall into an uncomfortable silence again. Why? Why is this so odd? _It's just the pier._ Charles explains, because for some reason he feels the need to. _There's an exhibit. The Bodies exhibit. It's on Friday night._

_Friday?_

_Yes._ Charles pauses. _I was hoping you wouldn't mind-_

_I don't._ Erik thinks quickly. _I don't mind. It's good. I'm glad you – you and Hank McCoy are going out. He's a nice guy._

_If you don't want me to go-_

_Why wouldn't I want you to go?_

Finally, something shifts in Erik's thoughts – a ripple of sensation that echoes. It almost sounds like a dare, and Charles is tempted to just let everything out. To say that if Erik doesn't want him to go he won't. If he just asks him, Charles will do a rain check with Hank. Or not. He could call Hank and tell him that he can't go at all - not if Erik doesn't want him to because he wants Charles all to himself.

This is Charles' perfect opening. He can just… say it. Project it. Tell Erik that he's had a massive crush on him for three years now, and that every time Erik smiles at him his breath catches. Or whenever Erik's fingers brush Charles' skin his heart beats double time. He could tell him, he could. He could…

_No reason,_ Charles says instead, and the clock ticks. A few more moments pass and the metal of the knitting needle begins to twist again.

_I hope you have fun._

Charles' gaze on the textbook pages blurs.

_Yeah. Me too._

**o o o**

Erik isn't one to lie to himself. So halfway through telling himself for the fiftieth time that he doesn't care that Charles, at this very moment, could very well be laughing at some stupid science based joke told by Hank McCoy, he stops.

He does care. He cares, he cares, he _cares_ , and he doesn't want Charles out with Hank McCoy, especially when he's supposed to be here, on _their_ Friday night.

He doesn't know why, though.

He honestly doesn't

When he thought Charles was going on a date with Moria Erik couldn't have cared less. He and Moria have gone out a few times over the years and Erik has never given it a second thought. But apparently there's something about Hank McCoy…

He stops trying to watch some documentary about the honey badger and irritably turns the television off. The image of the beast ripping the skin off of a rattle snake blinks out of existence and Erik lies back in his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

It's not like he didn't know Charles likes boys too. He's always known that - it's never been a secret or something to be ashamed of. Hell, even Erik gives the side eye to that blonde kid with the tattoos on the football team sometimes – the guy's a dick, but he has those shoulders that make him the best linebacker on any school team in the county.

He looks over at the clock.

Twelve twenty-four.

They're probably on their way home now. Or maybe Charles is already home, standing on his front step, looking up into Hank McCoy's face as it gets closer and closer as he leans down-

Erik furrows his brow and shakes his head, the irritable feeling scratching at his insides growing. Why is he thinking about his best friend and Hank McCoy kissing? It's not really his business for one thing. Charles can kiss whomever he likes - God knows Erik has done his fair share of it with various girls in their grade. And he highly doubts Charles was lying down in his bed during Erik's date nights, wondering if he was pressing Emma into the backseat of her car. Not that he thinks Hank has Charles pressed into the backseat of his car. Charles wouldn't do that - make out with someone on the first date. And besides, he's seen McCoy around school; a senior that acts as timid as a freshman and hangs out with friends much louder and rowdier than he will ever be. His nose always in a book and pushing his glasses up with his finger. He barely even celebrates when he wins the track meets for the school team, choosing instead to grin crookedly amidst the backslaps and cheers, ridiculously high cheekbones stained red. Erik doubts Hank has the balls to be so forward as to lay Charles down in the backseat of his car.

He might though.

If they hit it off.

Which they probably did, because Charles is shy too, and he's always reading, and they're both science nerds who get excited over the prospect of the discovery of a new species of fungi. Not that Erik doesn't think a new species of fungi is… interesting. It dawns on him that Charles probably doesn't know that. He should let him know, and then the both of them can go to more science exhibits without Charles feeling like he's dragging Erik around, boring him to death.

And he likes to read. He's more into learning different languages than thesis statements about the multiplication of cells but still, a book is a book.

Right?

Erik looks at the clock again. Twelve forty-seven. He turns away from it onto his other side and punches his pillow into shape. When he shuts his eyes tight, resolutely bypassing anymore thought about Charles, Hank McCoy, and what might be going on at this stage of their date, it feels like a rebellion.

**o o o**

_Did you have a good time?_

It's Saturday, and Erik and Charles are in the park by Charles' house. They lay on the grass, in the sprawling shade of their favorite huge elm. Erik darts a glance over to Charles, but his face is turned upwards, eyes closed. He's displeased to see a small smile curving Charles' lips. He looks away.

_Yes. It was surprisingly enjoyable._

_Why surprisingly?_

_Well, Hank never really seemed one for the humor. He's usually so quiet, you know?_

_Yeah…_ They fall quiet and the sound of kids screaming 'you're it', and the click of bike stokes fill the silence. After a few minutes Erik asks, _What did you two do?_

_Just dinner, and the exhibit. Then we got ice cream and sat on the beach, talking._

Erik tries to infuse his thoughts with good humor, even though his stomach is doing an odd maneuver he's yet to feel ever before in all of his sixteen years. _Just talking?_

_Yes, Erik._

_So you wouldn't know if he's a good kisser?_

Charles doesn't answer right away and Erik feels his heart drop a few notches. Straight into the wriggling mess of knots that used to be his stomach. He's simultaneously happy and frustrated that Charles has learned boundaries when it comes to his telepathy. Maybe if he broke his own rules he could tell Erik why he feels like shit. He feigns good spirits. _Aha! Fess up._ And why is he doing this to himself? Why does he keep asking quest-?

_It was nothing serious._ Charles pauses again, and Erik doesn't need to look over to know that his smile has gotten a little bigger. _Just a kiss goodnight._

_Good enough for a second date?_

_Maybe._

_Yes._

… _Alright, yes. We're going to the movies Friday night._

_Friday, huh?_ Erik hates himself the moment he projects it over to Charles. He doesn't want to seem needy. And sure, he doesn't like it that fucking _Hank McCoy_ (and when did his name become a epithet) has stolen his best friend for the second Friday in a row, but that doesn't mean Charles shouldn't _go_ and enjoy himself.

_Yes…_ Now Charles sounds unsure. _That is alright isn't it? I could-_

_No, no. It's fine. I think I have plans anyway._

_Oh?_

_Yeah, uh, I was thinking of asking Emma out._ Well if he wasn't before, he is now. He wants to dwell on the fact that she will probably say no, as rumor has it she's dating some Californian transplant nicknamed Riptide, but he's too busy fixated on the fact that he just gave into the insane urge to lie to his best friend about something so stupid.

_Oh._ Charles sounds funny. Erik isn't imagining it. He's not. _That's… we'll both have dates._

_I guess so._ Erik shrugs mentally and all falls quiet again.

Everything stays the same – the kids scream, and the bikes ride past, and the birds tweet. But something has shifted. He can feel it and he knows Charles does to.

Something is different and Erik doesn't like it.

**o o o**

The warm sun shines down on his skin through the break in the leaves and Charles contemplates telling Erik that Hank thought they were together. That apparently the whole student body thinks they're dating and madly in love, but decides against it.

It would be a laugh, that's it.

What would it accomplish, really?

**o o o**

"Dead man walking," Alex says right into his ear, lips brushing against the shell, and Hank whips his head around.

"What are you talking about?"

Alex nods his head and Hank looks around in the same direction. Despite the noise and what seems like hundreds of students milling around the hall, his eyes are immediately drawn to Charles who is digging around for something in his locker. His mind goes to goo for a second; just as it has ever other time he remembers leaning down to finally kiss him. He recalls the fresh, sweet taste of the other boy's mouth and feels his own begin to break out into a goofy grin. He wants to sink into the memory, but the sudden prickling on the back of his neck has Hank looking up to stare directly into Erik Lensherr's eyes.

He does not look happy.

At all.

In fact, if Hank wasn't sure that Lensherr wasn't a killer he'd be extremely worried. He still _is_ really worried, to be honest. Lensherr glares at Hank, eyes a flinty, and furious kind of green that reminds him of grenades, and Hank feels a shudder zip up his spine. The other boy doesn't blink, holding Hank hostage with how hostile he appears. Hank feels like he's staring down a hardened dog, his only reward for looking away being sharp teeth around his throat.

Finally, Erik looks away when Charles slams his locker shut and nudges his arm. Hank tears his gaze away from Erik, who is now smiling down warmly at Charles. As if he wasn't just promising Hank a slow death with his eyes.

Sean flips his shaggy red hair out of his eyes, gives a low, sharp whistle and leans his back against the lockers. "Man, he is one scary motherfucker."

"I'm just surprised you actually did it." Alex says, and sounds just as impressed as he did the first time Hank told him Charles said yes.

"Course he did," Sean replies, pushing himself away from tan metal. "He's stupid enough." He turns to Hank and slaps his palm down on his shoulder, expression mockingly somber. "Man, you must _really_ want that English ass. Good thing you can run."

He and Alex burst into laughter and Hank swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.


	5. Chapter 5

The tassels have switched sides, the emerald green robes have been shed, and the sound of pictures being taken, mingled with proud, tearful exclamations, are over and done with.

Graduation.

It came with nervous knees and sweaty palms and went with sighs of relief and wide smiles, and now Erik and Charles sit in the mostly deserted park down the street from Charles' home. Their suit jackets and shiny dress shoes have been long discarded onto the grass, and ties loosened around their throats. They've rolled up their sleeves and stuffed their socks into their pockets, more to enjoy the way grit gets between their toes and up trouser legs. They've long outgrown this sandbox, but neither of them move from where they sit.

The setting sun cuts a swath of orange light across Erik's eyes and he keeps his head down to avoid the glare. Gripping a handful of sand, he moves his arm in lazy figure eights and loosens his fist gradually, watching the golden bits fall in a steady stream. A sudden grin breaks across his face and he rubs his knee against Charles'. _Remember when I dared you to eat a fist full of this stuff?_

Beside him, Charles laughs quietly at Erik's question. _Yes,_ he answers, _I was sick for a whole week._

 _You were only sick for a day, and stretched it out into a week._ Charles laughs again, louder, and Erik looks over at his friend quickly, smiling at the way his freckled nose wrinkles slightly. _I still felt so bad, though,_ Erik thinks. He remembers how upset he'd been to see Charles choking on the small handful of rough particles. He also remembers how he'd apologized more than a dozen times, going as far as to give Charles his favorite stuffed zebra to hunker down in bed with. It didn't matter that Charles forgave him the first time he'd said sorry – he still spent hours on the edge of Charles' bed, floating and bending his first set of knitting needles into any and every shape Charles asked for.

He can hear the grin in Charles' voice when his friend begins to float another thought his way. _Remember that day, when you kept pushing me higher and higher on the swing?_ The laugh is building in Erik's chest, even before Charles finishes - he knows exactly where he's going with this. _I kept saying 'Erik, I don't think this is a good idea,' and you just kept telling me to 'hold on tight.'_ Completely _ignoring my pleas-_

 _Oh, please,_ Erik laughs aloud. _You loved it-_

 _You_ froze _me in mid-air!_ Charles insists. _In front of a_ huge _crowd of people-_

A sharp bark of laughter pushes itself out of Erik's chest. He remembers that day crystal clear - God, his Mama had been so vexed when she looked over from the playground benches to see more than a dozen kids and their parents agape at the sight of Charles' swing frozen midair, chain link bars held out perfectly straight, and eleven year old Erik's wicked smile. He can recall Charles' large blue eyes a mix of nervous and excited, shining with happiness.

 _I didn't get dessert that night,_ Erik thinks wistfully, and Charles gives an amused snort.

 _I could have fallen and_ really _hurt myself._

 _Nah,_ Erik thinks, casually. _I'd never have let you fall._

They sit side by side, fingers buried into the sand, the surface sun warmed at first, but getting cooler the further they dig their fingers down. A few more moments pass in silence before Charles' quiet thought floats over.

_We are officially adults now._

Something tightens in Erik's chest at the note of longing in his friend's voice, heart leaping uncomfortably in his chest. He doesn't answer, just buries his fingers further down, the surface giving easily. He digs as if he's looking for something, vaguely - maybe searching for the bottom. He can't recall ever getting to the floor of this thing when he was little, working with hands much smaller than they are now, but it never worked - the rest of the surrounding sand always fell easily into the hole he'd just dug.

 _After this summer, its college,_ Charles continues, and Erik's stomach gives an unpleasant lurch. _And then careers, and…_ Charles shifts next to him and sighs aloud, quietly. _It's happening so quickly. Or it feels like it, anyway._

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik sees two of the few children left, brothers it looks like, with their matching, flaming red hair, run off to where their mother has just called them inside from a few houses down. He wants to let out a hum of acknowledgement or even nod at Charles' words, but he can't seem to move anything except for his fingers that just keep digging, digging, digging.

 _I've already put a request in for us to be to be roommates,_ Charles says, leaning a little closer to where he's trying to build a little tower without the aid of water. It keeps falling into a puddle of crystals. _And since it was done so early, I can't think of a reason why they'd say no. Father said that he'd take us to get things for our room. Later on, of course –_

_I'm leaving._

It's the first time he's pushed the thought to the forefront of his mind, and Erik digs his fingers in _._ His heart starts beating double-time in his chest, and he's sure Charles can hear the blood rushing in his ears.

A few feet away a father calls for his daughter, who jumps off of the swing and runs towards him. Her excited chattering fades away as she grabs his hand and tugs him down the street. And suddenly all that is left is the setting sun and Charles' silence. Erik doesn't look over to his best friend, but grabs a fist of sand, lets it filter through his fingers, and looks up and out into the trees. _I meant to tell you before,_ he tries to explain into the silence, staring straight ahead. It's true - he did try to tell Charles about his plans for after high school, once graduation was over and done with, but every time he would try to bring it up the other boy's bright blue eyes would light up at the prospect of going to college together - finally being on their own but always having a piece of home in each other.

But the truth is, Erik can't imagine going through another cycle of homework, and tests, and grades; school, academics, that's always been Charles' thing. Everyone knows Charles is going to go to college, get the best grades, graduate first in his class out of three thousand, and go on to discover the cure for cancer, or find the missing link, or manage to take over the world in the most humane way possible.

But Erik? Erik wants travel, go to different countries and cities, not leaving until he's fluid in their native tongue. It's the only thing that's ever really made sense to him, always being able to absorb different languages like a sponge. The pull to travel is so in-ground into him, that he can't imagine sitting behind a desk while a bored teacher over-pronounces words before listlessly handing out an exam.

The thought is suffocating.

He bets he's the only person to ever feel their heart sink when they received one of the thick envelopes from Oxford.

 _I just wanted – I just wanted to be sure before I said anything._ Charles still says nothing in reply and Erik looks back down at his dusty hands, the stone in his stomach growing heavier and heavier. _I don't think college is for me. I want to learn languages, but not in the classroom, you know? And I really was-_ and he can't get his thoughts straight, not when Charles is being this quiet. _I really want to be with you- live with you, and share a room with you, and watch you get drunk at frat parties and listen to you use your drunk pick up lines, but-_ He stumbles again. _School's just not- I can't..._

He trails off. The sun sinks lower, disappearing under the horizon.

 _It's alright,_ Charles says softly, finally, and out of the corner of his eye Erik can see Charles bow his head to look at his own gritty fingers tapping against the sand. _I figured that... you were going to do that._ Erik stares and Charles cracks a little smile. _I didn't look into your mind. Believe it or not, after thirteen years of friendship, you're pretty easy to read._

Erik grins at that and Charles bumps his shoulder into his. _Have you told your parents?_ He shakes his head, and Charles lets out a huff of laughter. _Your mum is going to kill you._ Erik groans, knowing Charles is most likely right, but he's not too worried about that. The weight in his stomach is fading gradually, disappearing completely when he feels Charles move closer to him and rest his head on Erik's shoulder. _So,_ he thinks once he's settled, w _here are you going?_

The sun has set by now, the sky a dark, inky blue, and when he looks up, he can see the stars before he closes his eyes and buries his face into Charles' clean smelling hair, inhaling deeply.

_Everywhere._


	6. From Where You Are

**newworldOrdr** : this is weird

**ProfX:** What is?

**newworldOrdr** : talking to you like this.

**ProfX:** We've IM'd each other before, Erik

**newworldOrdr** : i know that. but it's different when I'm IMing you from across the world and not from across town

**ProfX:** I suppose you're right.

**newworldOrdr** : of course I am. how's college going, Mr. Genius?

**ProfX:** Don't call me that. And it's going alright – I've got a schedule that works for me and a roommate that isn't horrible. So far, at least.

**newworldOrdr** : give it some time - bet you five bucks he'll turn out to be nuts. you'll come home to find him sniffing your boxer briefs.

**ProfX** : =/

**newworldOrdr** : haha! anyway, how's the food?

**ProfX:** Wonderful.

**newworldOrdr** : You lie.

**ProfX:** You'll never know.

**newworldOrdr** : that's weird too

**ProfX:** What is?

**newworldOrdr** : not being able to hear you inside of my head.

**ProfX:** You can't expect me to able to speak to you while you're all the way in Rome.

**newworldOrdr** : yeah, about that – work on it

**ProfX:** Yes, well, when you stumble across a giant helmet that can allow me to get to you that far away during your travels you let me know.

**newworldOrdr** : that's _your_ job, Mr. Genius. Invent something. Aren't you going to be a scientist?

**ProfX** : I'm studying biology, with a focus on anatomy and genetic modification.

**newworldOrdr** : ...is that not the same thing?

**ProfX:** You're ridiculous

**newworldOrdr** : so you always say.

**newworldOrdr** : i miss it.

**ProfX:** Driving me insane in person?

**newworldOrdr** : that too. but no, i was talking about having your maniacal laughter in my head.

**ProfX** : I don't have a maniacal laugh

**newworldOrdr** : of course you don't : )

**newworldOrdr** : you're the only one I let in my head, you know that right?

**ProfX:** I'm the only one who _can_ get into your head

**newworldOrdr** : whatever, you know what I mean.

**ProfX:** I do.

**ProfX:** But I've got to go. Early class in the morning. And at the risk of having you call me a female – I miss you.

**newworldOrdr** : alright. and yeah.

**newworldOrdr** : yeah I miss you too.

**newworldOrdr** : you girl.

**o o o**

_Charles,_

_Only_ you _would insist on handwritten letters in the 21_ _st_ _century. You're lucky you're my best friend, or I would have told you to shove it. Don't tell my mom though – she'll want one too._

_So yeah, Italy. It's… beautiful._

_Obviously._

_When's the last time you heard someone say Italy is a pit?_

_Want to know a pit? Germany. I swear, those people are all around pretty horrible. I still have that black eye from that one fucker. I know I already said this, but I had no idea that woman was his little sister. And why would I? He looked like a bull. Hit like one too._

_Anyway, I know you'd love it here. In fact you should drop out of Oxford, pack your bags, and catch a plane._

_No?_

_Fine._

_You're no fun at all, Charles, anyone ever tell you that?_

_Since I've been here I'm pretty sure I've gained about fifty pounds – Olive Garden has_ nothing _on the real stuff. There's this bakery around the corner, and their bread… it's like a baked ball of heaven. Seriously, if I could somehow get the stuff to you fresh I would._

_The women here are all beautiful. The men here are all beautiful._ Everyone _here is beautiful. It's a little bizarre. I feel like I'm walking around in a Dolce and Gabana ad. I'm leaving here in a few days, (Cairo, here I come) but I'm sure this will be my last stop before I come back. It's that great._

_I'm gonna leave it at that. I'm not good at this whole 'writing letters' thing, and you know it, and you know you're lucky to have even gotten this much. I'd tell you I miss you, but you already know that. Besides, you're the sop out of the two of us._

_And I know it'll be Halloween, but don't eat too much candy next week – you'll just end up puking it all up in front of your fancy friends and they'll discover what a lightweight you are. Yeah, I know the last time that happened was when we were seven. I'll never let it go._

_You wasted all those M &M's._

_I've stuffed some pictures in here of everything I've mentioned. As you'll see, my thumb is hardly in any of these._

_I'm getting better._

_I'll try and steal some treasure from a pyramid for you (not really - expect a bottle of sand.)_

_Erik_

**o o o**

**ProfX:** I'm snowed in

**newworldOrdr** : i'm getting _really_ great reception on this beach

**ProfX:** You are the absolute worst sometimes.

**newworldOrdr** : love you too

**newworldOrdr:** whatever. don't act like you don't love the snow. every Christmas break all you ever do is live under your ridiculously expensive blankets for two weeks.

**ProfX** : These blankets are an invesment.

**newworldOrdr:** mhm. besides, Croatian sun doesn't mess around – you'd burn like hot stove out here

**ProfX:** Ouch. Yeah, okay, I like the snow better. But I'm bored

**newworldOrdr** : watch movies like you always do

**ProfX:** _We_ always used to do that. Watching movies isn't that fun alone

**newworldOrdr** : then invite a friend over. i know you've made some. you haven't stopped talking about whatshisface for months

**ProfX:** Sam. And I don't want him in my room

**newworldOrdr** : what about Kacey?

**ProfX:** Her either

**newworldOrdr:** Travis

**Prof:** Nope

**newworldOrdr** : Now you're just being fussy

**ProfX:** Oh shut up

**newworldOrdr** : all i'm hearing is 'Erik is the only one I want in my bed'

**ProfX:** …

**newworldOrdr** : i'm flattered. Really i am.

**ProfX** : I'm going to take a nap.

**newworldOrdr** : good. some quality time with your blankie will do you good. or should i say, some quality time with your _investments_.

**ProfX** : i hope you step on a jelly fish

**newworldOrdr** : do they even have jelly fish in Croatia?

**ProfX** : No idea

**o o o**

**To: Charles Xavier**

**From: Erik Lensherr**

**Subject** : i probably won't remember that I sent this email, come tomorrow morning

Charles,

Remember that time in tenth grade when you corrupted us both and insisted we get wasted on St. Patrick's day? And before you say that that was me, let me point out that you were ENTIRELY too drunk to recall anything from that night correctly. Anyway, remember how we tried to sneak into that bar, but you (still) looked like a nine year old, so we just ended up swiping some of your mother's stash? And then you got so drunk on Ravenscroft and Stolichnaya that you tried to climb that tree to save a cat that turned out to be a weirdly shaped branch? And then we had to explain your twisted ankle to your dad?

Good times, right?

There's no point to this, to be honest. I just felt like bringing it up because it's St. Patrick's Day, and I'm in Ireland, and I wanted to make fun of you one last time before I die of liver failure later on tonight.

I'll try to remember to take pictures. That way if I make it till morning, you can see what a fool I've made of myself in a foreign country.

Hello, cirrhosis! I don't believe we've met...

Erik

**o o o**

"Hello?"

"Yeah, this call is going to cost about a million dollars. A minute."

A yawn. "Erik?"

"In the flesh. Or voice."

Rustling. "Hey. Where are you calling from? It's nearly three in the morning."

"Sorry. It's, like, five in the afternoon here."

"Here?"

"Sydney."

"Oh." Silence. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of an actual phone call? You do know this is going to cost a million dollars a minute, don't you?"

"Yeah. I know. Just, uh." Pause. "I had to call. It's your birthday, Charlsie."

"Don't call me that."

"But you love it."

He can hear the smile through the phone. "I really don't."

"Mhm." Softly, "Happy Birthday."

"I- thanks. Thanks."

Breathing.

"It's weird, isn't it? Not celebrating together."

"Yes. It's-" another rustle. "It's pretty odd."

Silence. "It's really cold here."

"It's on the other side of the world."

"It's April."

"That's how weather works, Erik. It's a little different everywhere you go."

"Shut up."

A laugh and a hitched breath.

"I-" _haven't met anyone that I connect with as much I do with you. I miss seeing your smile. I miss the way you roll your eyes when I call you Charlsie. I-_ "-miss you, you know."

Quiet. "Yeah. I miss you too, Erik."

Breathing.

"So, uh. I'll talk to you in a few days?"

"Of course," and there's the smile again, Erik can hear it. "You've raised the bar – now I've got to call for your birthday, don't I?"

"You'd be the worst best friend in the universe if you didn't."

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

"I only speak the truth."

A soft laugh, and a stutter in a heartbeat. "Of course you do."

"…bye, Charles."

"Goodnight, Erik."


	7. One

This taxi isn't moving nearly as fast as it should be.

Not at all, and it's driving Erik insane. His heart is racing, his mind is heaving, his hands are trembling, and everything should be _moving_ just as quickly, just as frantic and jerky, as it all feels to him. Instead, everything is slowing down, crawling, and it's almost as if he's trying to slough through the atmosphere. The temptation to shove every car away with a flick of his hand laps at his mind; he couldn't care less if they crash into each other, shattering as the press away on each side - it'll leave the roads clear.

He contents himself with messing with the stop lights so that they all turn green.

"Please," he asks, "is there _any way_ you could go faster?" And now his voice is shaking, more-so than his hands.

"Listen, guy, I'm goin' as fast as I can without getting us killed," the driver replies, turning his head slightly to talk over his shoulder. _Brooklyn_ , Erik thinks faintly. His accent is thick, the kind of New York accent that people imitate for fun, and, once again, with a sickening lurch, Erik remembers he's back in the States – the drivers in Italy are so much more polite. "The damn roads are iced over," the driver (Vincent Rutgers the ID between the slots of bulletproof glass reads) continues. "All the damn rain." And yeah, Erik knows the roads are dangerous and slippery. It's the reason why he's back home.

He sighs, sits back from where he was leaning toward the partition and settles into the cracked leather seats. He tries to quiet his busy mind by staring out at the grey, December evening, but the sight of the dirty streets, graffiti walls, and bustling people tire him out almost immediately. A sharp feeling slices through his gut once again, and he leans forward, this time putting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.

He can't breathe. It's so hard to even _think-_

He shouldn't have stayed away for so long. Erik _knows_ that if he were here this wouldn't have happened. _Somehow,_ he could have stopped this from happening… not that he's exactly sure what he would have done, but…

Breathing is becoming harder, each inhale becoming shorter, faster, and his head begins to swim. Faintly, as if listening through a thin wall, he can hear himself beginning to hyperventilate.

"Hey, buddy." And the driver's vaguely concerned voice breaks through the panic. "You okay back there? Do I need to pull over?"

"No! No." Erik pulls his hands away from his face, scrubbing roughly before letting them drop, and leans back again. "Please… don't stop. Just keep going."

**o o o**

It feels like more, but its only twenty excruciating minutes later when they arrive. Erik grabs the worn backpack he threw a few essentials into before leaving his rented apartment in Venice, and shoves what feels like way too much money at the cabbie. He doesn't wait for his change (he's not even sure if he handed the man American bills) – just slams out of the car and hurries toward the entrance of the building. He ignores the ambulances idling at the sides, and the nurses who know better, huddled in winter coats over scrubs by the automatic doors, indulging in a smoke break.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, the sharp scent of antiseptic hits his nose. Erik's always hated hospitals, and this very smell is no small reason. But that doesn't matter right now; what matters is-

_Third floor,_ _Mr. X said the third floor_. There's an elevator right across from where he stands, but Erik wastes no time waiting for it to arrive, and instead locates the nearest stairwell. He takes each step three at a time, and by the time he reaches the third floor he's panting, chest hurting slightly not at all from the exertion. He hurries down another fluorescently lit hall. A quick survey of the lobby shows no sign of the Xaviers, but he didn't really expect them to be here; they're probably at home, trying to get a little rest before returning.

_305… 307… 309… 311… 313-_

313.

Room 313. This is the room; the brown plaque on the wall says so. This is where Mr. X told him Charles would be when he'd made that long distance call, but staring at the bruised, almost unrecognizable, body on the bed, Erik can't believe that _this_ is his best friend. This fragile, broken thing, with tubes in his arms, and another down his throat, and the casts on both his legs making hills under the pristine sheets…

Bright blue eyes closed... still in the coma he's been in for two days.

This can't be his Charles. There is no way. Erik left Charles not even two years ago at the airport outdoor kiosk. He'd hugged him so hard the other boy's feet had left the ground, ignored the playful slaps on his back, and focused on the warm breath on his neck. Charles was smiling and laughing when Erik looked over his shoulder before disappearing through the airport doors. Charles was smiling and laughing _four days ago_ on a surprisingly clear webcam feed. So it doesn't make sense, what Erik is looking at, even though the conversation with Mr. Xavier explained everything: icy roads, dark streets, and a car that couldn't stop in time. How Charles had been almost home, less than five minutes away, having decided to walk instead of drive to the grocery store to pick up that hot chocolate with the cinnamon he loved to drink late on cold nights.

He'd tried not to imagine Charles, small and lithe, bleeding and motionless; pale skin glowing against a dark, wet road while a frantic driver dialed 911. But the image, each time worse than before, played over and over in his mind.

But seeing Charles now, he realizes that reality is a hundred times worse.

He drops his bag on the floor, not caring if it bangs loudly - he's half hoping for Charles to stir. To scrunch his nose the way he does when he's just waking up, vaguely grumpy, slightly rumpled, and entirely beautiful, but he doesn't move. Nothing moves except for the steady spikes on the heart monitor and the gradual rise and fall of a slender chest, covered in a hospital gown.

Despite his limbs feeling like gelatin, Erik manages to drag one of the heavy oak chairs over to Charles' bedside and drops down into it. Immediately, he reaches for Charles' hand, heart lurching when he finds it slightly cold to the touch, and moves his other hand to cradle the fingers. He rubs gently, transferring his body heat as best he can, ignoring the way his vision has become increasingly blurry. When the tears start to slip down his face, he doesn't let go to wipe them away.

"Hey, Mr. Genius." He says this quietly, but he can still hear the crack in his own voice, struggling to make noise around the lump lodged in his throat. After two years of being so far away, it's automatic for Erik to speak aloud instead of directing his thoughts directly into Charles' mind. The urge to do so again is nearly overwhelming, though. The thing is- Erik is barely hanging in there as of this moment. If he were to project his thoughts in Charles' mind and not get an answer… He knows he'd lose it completely.

"I-" What can he say? What can he _do_ to make this better? "I'm - _God_. I'm so sorry, Charlsie," he tries, voice catching on the old nickname. Charles always says he hates it, but Erik knows better - he sees the way Charles' cheeks always flush this pretty pink color when Erik would mumble it against his hair, laughing it into the skin of his neck before being pushed away...

The sound that rips up from his own throat is quiet, but it _hurts._ It hurts so fucking bad, and Erik can't stand it. "I'm so sorry. I should- I should have been here. I should have flown straight back instead of going back to Venice. I..." It's becoming too difficult to breathe again. He swallows hard, and moves a little closer to the edge of the seat, closer to the bed. "They said- your dad said that the doctor told your family… that you might not be able to-" He squeezes his eyes tightly together for a moment and is suddenly ambushed with an image, a hazy memory sharpened, of Charles, six years old and sweet, running away to hide behind a massive evergreen. The sun shines into Erik's eyes as he peaks through his fingers, cheating as he counts. He opens his eyes again, and the image fades away. Unwilling to let go of his best friend's hand just yet, he turns his face to wipe his wet cheeks on his sweater covered shoulders. When he's able to speak again his voice is rough but a little more controlled. "But fuck that, Charles. You'll be _fine_."

Squeezing Charles hand, now warm in his grip, he leans forward to press his lips against the soft skin. "We'll be fine," he whispers against blue veins.

_We'll get through this._


	8. Just So You Know

The sharp sting of the antiseptic scent still bothers Erik but he's used to it now. The bustle and buzz of the nurses, orderlies, and patients at this time of day is another thing he's become accustomed to, actually preferring it to the eerie stillness he encountered that first night he came to see Charles.

He clutches the drawstring of the Nike bag in his hand, careful not to tilt it too much to either side. A passing nurse smiles as she walks by wearing her Sunny Day scrubs and holding a chart, and Erik smiles and nods back. They all know him on the floor now – or at least know him the way he knows them, not by name but by sight. To most of them, he's 'that tall guy who comes by almost every day and stays for hours' while, in his mind, they're all mostly regulated to titles like 'short nurse with the shiny red hair' or 'nurse with the mean eyebrows' or 'pretty, black nurse who makes everyone cookies and who Erik secretly wants to hug all the time because she seems so cuddly.'

Outside, the tree branches sway, the brisk May breeze catching the leaves in a crazy dance. He can't see the street from this floor, but he's sure the sky matches the pavement, grey and murky, cracked by wispy clouds even though it's only a little after noon. He catches sight of his reflection in the thick glass and absently notes that he doesn't look all that panicked or even that worried. To be fair, though, ever since he woke up this morning and decided what was going to happen today, an odd sense of calm had settled over him. Sure, his heart skips a few beats here and there randomly, but besides that, Erik is feeling fine altogether. Well, he feels fine in between all the hoping it isn't all some kind of 'calm before the shit storm' situation.

The elevator dings for what seems like the hundredth time in the twenty minutes since he's been here, and the glance over his shoulder is automatic at this point. It's when he sees that it's finally Charles emerging that he turns fully and grins, heart giving one of those small jolts and hand tightening on the bag in his hand. As usual, Charles is dressed in his hospital gown and a pair of the many thick socks Mr. Xavier occasionally brings him – this time it's the red ones with the purple stripes- and is being pushed in his wheelchair by 'nurse who always smells like citrus.' "Nurse Laura," Charles always reminds him.

When Charles sees him standing there, his big blue eyes light up and even though Erik feels something in him dip pleasantly at the sight, he wonders how his best friend can manage to always look so happy to see him every single time. It's almost as if he doesn't expect Erik to show, even though they've been doing this routine for close to five months now.

"Hi, Erik," Nurse Laura greets, brown eyes twinkling as she comes to a stop in front of him.

"Hey," Erik nods to her before looking down at Charles. "How'd it go today?"

"Better." It's said mildly, but Erik can still see how Charles' forehead is still a little dewy and cheeks a little flushed from the exertion. It's the truth, Erik knows – Charles' physical therapy _is_ going better. He remembers how hard it was for his best friend to even _move_ those first couple of months. He knows the very fact that Charles is even getting up and walking the short length of the bar in the therapy room is impressive – it still doesn't mean it's easy. His heart almost tore out of his chest those first few times Charles came back to the room, shaking and clammy, having to nearly be lifted back into his bed and not opening his eyes for a full ten minutes once he was there.

Erik smiles down at Charles and uses a wide palm to brush the other man's floppy brown hair away from his forehead. _I've got contraband as your reward,_ he thinks and grins when Charles' face breaks into an almost giddy smile. He smoothes his hand down to the back of Charles' neck, trying to make the hair stay flat and it works for a second, before it all falls back into place. He rubs his thumb along the edge of the other man's ear before letting his arm drop back at his side, looking back up in time to see Nurse Laura watching them with an amused and suspiciously soppy expression on her face. Immediately, Erik feels his cheeks and neck flush, and he clears his throat before looking away.

"He's being modest- he did really well today, actually," Laura says as they begin to walk towards Charles' room. "The therapist said he did a full thirty minutes before he had to take a break." She rubs Charles' shoulder warmly.

Charles ducks his head briefly, but Erik catches the flush on his cheeks. "I've still a long way to go," he says quietly.

"True," Erik says casually. "But you've gained three minutes from last Friday. You're getting there."

"He's right," Laura nods. "You're actually on the faster tip of this whole thing." Erik steps aside to allow her to wheel Charles into his room, and watches from inside the doorway as she helps him up, and into the bed. She grabs a hold of the wheelchair again, and smiles at them both. "Alright," she sings. "I'll leave you two alone."

She always says the same thing, with the same tone of implication and both Charles and Erik's faces always flush. He's noticed, though, that neither of them ever bothers to correct her. He waits until the door is closed quietly behind her before he balances the bag on the edge of the bed, and opens it. "You're ridiculous, you know that right?" he chides as he pulls out a super-sized cup of Coca Cola he's been careful not to tip over this entire time. He hands the sweating plastic to Charles who takes it eagerly with both hands and reaches back into pull out the crumpled, slightly greasy, Checkers bag. "I could be killing you with this stuff, you know. Isn't it against some kind of law to have this many calories in a hospital?" Charles doesn't answer, just rolls his eyes as he takes a greedy sip of the drink held in one hand and does a kind of grabby hand with the other. Erik smirks as he hands it over. He lets the now empty bag drop to the floor with a quiet 'swish' and settles on the side of Charles' bad, one knee drawn up to rest atop Charles' blanket clad thigh.

Watching the way his friend's face melts into a ridiculous kind of bliss when he bites into a seasoned fry does funny and (by now) familiar things to his stomach. Erik's not oblivious; he knows what this is. It was there, small and soft in his chest before he left the country (and not an insignificant part of the reason why he got on that first plane.) But now, ever since he's had more than enough time to _really_ consider life without Charles, it's flared harder and brighter than ever. It sits in the back of his throat, tangy and prevalent, always ready to tangle on his tongue and slip past the defenses he's not really sure he has in the first place.

"-know won't hurt them."

Erik shifts on the bed and focuses back in Charles, who he notices has a dollop of sauce on the side of his mouth. "Hm?"

"I said, what they know won't hurt them." He licks the sauce from the corner of his lip. Uses his thumb to make sure it's all gone and sucks the pad into his mouth.

"I'm sure they know by now. Unless they think I hang out at fast food places, since I always reek of grease and salt."

Charles shrugs. "It's only once every two weeks."

"I read something once that said once a month was the limit."

"That was for McDonalds."

"Isn't it the same thing?"

"Do you see anyone making movies about Checkers?" The laugh rumbles in Erik's chest at Charles' cheeky response. "Besides, you've seen what they've been feeding me here. It's driving me mad."

"Yeah, yeah." Erik grins. They fall into a comfortable almost silence where Charles digs into his cheesy bacon fries and a soap opera plays lowly on the television that hangs on the opposite wall. It's nice. Calm. And Erik still feels… _It._ When he woke up this morning, he felt _It._ That weird, not entirely foreign, weight in his gut. It rang of anticipation and the normal amount of fear. But more prevalent was the feeling of resignation. The kind where you didn't know, not really, that you were working up to something, but then you wake up or snap out of being an idiot and realize 'today is the day.'

To be honest, he's just wondering what's taken him so long.

He clears his throat and already feels foolish – he doesn't plan to say anything aloud. _So,_ he thinks, deciding to just jump into it and sees Charles look up at him. _So, you know how you always hear people say there was this_ moment _they knew something. Like when they play the right lottery numbers or something like that._

_Yes._ The way Charles' head sort of tilts to the side in curiosity sends something warm spiraling through his chest.

_Or, you know, how, in the books or the movies, when there's that 'aha' moment when they- when they realize they really like- love- someone. That they absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt need them around forever._

Charles nods and a smile plays on the edges of his lips. _You mean every romantic comedy ever made?_

Erik's returning smile is brief. _Yeah._ He's quiet for a moment. He looks down at the quilt his own mother made him take over the second time he visited. When Charles was still broken and asleep. His fingers pick at the dark blue thread. _And you're sitting there reading this book or watching this movie, and when it happens all you can think is 'what a cliché.' But then- it_ happens. _To you. And it knocks so much sense into you. It does it so hard and so fast that you're knocked on your ass and you can't even breathe._ And to be honest he can't really breathe right now – from where his eyes are trained on the pattern of the blanket he can see Charles' hands are utterly still. A few moments pass, but the quiet this time is tense, weighted down and sparking.

_Erik-_

He rushes on. _And you're sitting there. And you can't breathe, or move, or think, and you start hating yourself. Because you would have_ let _this person go, you know? You would have felt all these things for so long and they were_ right there _and you didn't say anything. And by the time you're finally ready –_ another flash of Charles with an IV in his arm, and skin pale against blooming blue and purple _. By the time you're ready, you've taken your own fucking time, and it turns out it could have been too late-_

"Erik." The sound of his best friend's voice, hoarse and a little disbelieving makes him look away from his idle hands. His own eyes are burning a little, and he blinks hard, opening them again almost immediately while raising and lowering his eyebrows quickly. He inhales deeply and shakes his head, even as he takes the greasy fry box and sets it on the bedside table. Sliding closer brings both their chests and faces within inches of each other, and the way Charles doesn't move away is more than encouraging.

Those big blue eyes that he's loved so damn much, for longer than he can remember don't blink, don't waver.

Erik can feel how raw his own throat feels when he speaks. "I know you'll say it wasn't my fault. But I still should have been here." Charles opens his mouth to speak, but Erik keeps going. "Not just for this, but- I just should have _been_ here. I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. I don't know what I was looking for. I saw some great things, some amazingly beautiful stuff Charles." He gives a small self-depreciating laugh and ducks his head, scratching his thumb nail against his forehead before letting his arm drop. "But it didn't matter- it didn't matter where I was, the minute your face popped up on that computer screen I'd forget everything else I saw that day. Would forget where I was for a second, just knew I wasn't right next to you-"

A small strangled sound is the only warning he gets before Charles' lips are on his own. It's jarring. His heart gives an all mighty heave and his stomach seems to erupt, butterflies going insane with drunken happiness. Charles tastes salty from the fries and sweet from Coca Cola syrup. Something happens- it feels like the world tilts, or jolts, or something and suddenly a fire explodes in Erik's veins. His mouth opens against Charles', gasps at how utterly _good_ it feels to _finally_ have him in his arms, warm, and solid, and _alive_. As if they have a mind of their own, his hands move up- one cupping a soft, heated cheek while the other slides into thick, silky-soft hair. Charles makes another sound, an aching whimper that has Erik surging into him, and when the other boy pants hot against his lips, Erik takes the opportunity to slip his tongue past teeth and into his mouth.

It's a full body shiver that rips through him when slippery _hot_ flesh slides against his own smoothly – it feels silken and heady, so much so his head feels like he's floating. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurs to him that he's probably hurting Charles with how tightly he's holding him close, but Charles makes no complaints, just cups his hands on either side of Erik's neck, using his thumbs to lightly caress right underneath his jaw.

The salt and sweet fades after a while to leave just the deep, essential, _Charles_ flavor and Erik already knows he's hooked. Runs the tip of his tongue along the ridge of the roof of the other boy's mouth, feels the uneven ridges of molars, bites at the plump bottom lip, and shivers at the way Charles is near to trembling in his arms.

The pounding of his heart is echoed a split second later by Charles', can feel it every time it beats against the front of his chest soaking through the thin fabric of his sweater. They kiss until he feels his lungs burning, and they pull away with huge pulls of oxygen through their mouths. It's when Charles breath cools on his face that he realizes his cheeks are a little damp. He smiles anyway – smiles at the way Charles is dazed and windswept, smiles at how utterly clueless they both have been, smiles at the way Charles grins back and wipes quickly at his own damp cheeks. He smiles because there's no reason in his world _not_ to smile.

He leans in again, loving the way Charles' arms come up to slide over his shoulders warm against his neck, easy and smooth like they've been doing it forever. A kiss, a small one, lips barely parting. Another and another, again and again, he presses lush, indulgent kisses against plump lips.

"You have no idea," he murmurs, lips sticky and swollen.

He feels Charles' grin against his lips. Whispers, "Yeah. I really, really do."

**End**


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